


The spider and the dragon

by kenwayallgetalong



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amélie and Hanzo friendship, Amélie joining Overwatch, Companionable Snark, Dissasociation, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenwayallgetalong/pseuds/kenwayallgetalong
Summary: An unlikely friendship forms in Overwatch. Or, how Amélie Lacroix learned to laugh again.





	The spider and the dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my disappearance! IRL demands got a bit too much, but I still wanna keep posting. Can't make any promises for timing, but hopefully it'll be sooner than this one was. Huge thanks to CrazyM who dragged me out of editing purgatory and asked where I'd been. I've had this project on the go for a long time now, and this was written well before Ana's introduction, so hopefully this explains some character's absences. Anyway, enough from me. Enjoy!
> 
> Trigger warnings for some dissassociation and Amélie's time in Talon (nothing graphic).

Amélie Lacroix rarely dreams. With Talon, she was rarely allowed the privilege, so the rare snatches of sleep she was alloted could hardly be taken up with pointless dreaming. Tonight, however, she dreams deep, and dreams long.

She dreams of a young man, and a home in Paris. Their home. The laughter on the air, the rich scent of the wine they drank, the slight mint of the cigarettes he smoked and she chided him for. The friends they knew back then.

The young, smiling Jack Morrison, always ready with a kind word or sage advice. The gruff Gabriel Reyes, his dark eyes sparkling and friendly. The beautiful Angela Ziegler, always checking in to make sure they were healthy and eating well (and joining her in the chiding). Grouchy old Torbjörn Lindholm, and the loud, bombastic Reinhardt Wilhelm. The sharp-eyed Ana Amari and the quick-witted Jesse McCree. Their friends.

She dreams of another time, years after that, after the Omnic Crisis and the fall of Overwatch.

_Hunkered down in a ruined building in Lijiang, desperately waiting for Talon extraction. Sitting next to the Reaper, who sat, cradling his shotguns over his knees, while she held her Widow’s Kiss close to her body. The sudden crack of gunfire, and the roar that split the night. The flash of green and grey. A stripe of red. The sudden streak of blue and that irritating laugh of the stupid-._

Amélie Lacroix opens her eyes. She looks at the rocky ceiling that is above her bunk carved into the wall of the Watchpoint. She stares at it, hard, as if she can break out of this prison with her eyes. Her hated prison. She stretches languidly in bed like a cat, rolling every joint, straining every muscle, shaking off the trappings of sleep. She rolls out of bed and looks around her room. _To call it spartan would be a compliment_ , she thinks. Terrified she’ll turn anything into a weapon; Overwatch has stripped out almost everything in the room.

She has her bed (which she’s sitting on), her window (which opens barely a centimeter), a table (bolted to the floor and bare), a chair (also bolted to the floor), a mini fridge (which is, too, bolted to the floor and is empty), and a wardrobe built in the wall opposite her bed (and is also empty, save for one of the two black and orange jumpsuits they have allowed her-she wears the other one). There is a door to her right, which leads to her bathroom, which contains a shower, toilet, and a single comb and plastic toothbrush (both with a rubber end to stop her from making a knife).

_Could be worse_ , she finds herself considering. She knows what the cell they’ve put Reaper in looks like. Crackling with electricity to restrain him at all times. She can sometimes hear the screams, deep into the night.

She stands, and scrapes her long black hair back, tying it back, letting it rest against the small of her back. She checks the clock (also bolted to the table, _honestly_ ), which projects 7:02am in red lettering. It’s the longest she’s slept in a while. Her body’s finally getting used to being allowed eight hours of rest, even if she doesn’t use it all. She rolls her neck absently and heads for the door, which opens with a hiss as she steps out into the Watchpoint corridor. No one else sleeps on this level, but she knows Athena is-.

“Good morning Ms Lacroix.” _There she is_. “Athena.” She says primly, as she begins to walk down the corridor. “Your schedule for this morning is clear, but you have a session with Dr Ziegler at 1100 hours.” “Thank you.” Amélie says curtly, cutting her off and getting into the elevator to take her up to the mess hall. The elevator hisses open at the top of the tarmac, and she walks across it, her jumpsuit swishing and irritating at her skin as she goes.

The sun is just creeping over the Gibraltar waves, and the base lies silent. She looks longingly at the ocean, and wishes she could just _go_. Leave Overwatch, leave Talon, leave it all behind and just run. As if on cue, the ankle tracker she’s been forced to wear buzzes against her skin. _Except for this damn thing._

She remembered when she’d had to put it on, the monkey, Winston, they called him, apologizing all the while. Lena had stood next to him, scowling darkly. “It’s protocol.” He’d reminded them both gently as he clipped the device into place. “The rest of the team isn’t too secure with having a former Talon operative on base.”

She remembered the stress he’d put on _former_ , as if terrified her former allegiance might drive her mad. Still, Winston and Lena (despite her irritating nature) were the only two people on this base she could call allies. Or at least, someone who wouldn’t shoot her given the slightest provocation. Even Dr Ziegler, with her promised oath to do no harm, still watched her with wary eyes in their daily therapy sessions, and her hand never strayed far from her Caduceus pistol.

She checks the clock overhead as she wanders into the mess hall. 7:05am. The base was still asleep, not usually stirring until about 8 in the morning most days. Good. It meant she had some time for a quiet breakfast before-.

“Morning love!” _Tracer_. “Good morning.” She replies mechanically, as the irritating young Brit blinks next to her, already brimming with her usual boundless energy at a time that was far too early for most. Where does she find this energy? She heads off for the table of food at the end of the room, passing Dr Ziegler and Jack Morrison at their table. Morrison’s got his visor off, which is becoming less of a rarity around the base. _He’s so old_ , she thinks, as she pours herself a cup of coffee and grabs a pair of croissants and slices of fruit from the table. Tracer grabs a truly _unhealthy_ amount of cereal and a cup of tea.

Amélie considers her options. _Sit with two people who want me dead or with a woman I’m liable to stab with a fork if she keeps talking?_

She chooses the latter. For some reason.

Tracer sits down opposite her, chattering and accosting her with noise and senseless words, Amélie responding mechanically each time. After a few minutes, Tracer seems to get the message and falls silent. They eat in silence for a few more minutes, while Amélie tries to focus on Angela and Jack’s conversation a few tables away. They’re speaking in low voices; even her enhanced hearing can’t pick out more than a jumble of words. The one word she hears though is “Reyes”, uttered by Morrison in a low growl.

Tracer’s comm buzzes, breaking the silence. She presses a finger to her ear, and grimaces as she hears the news, blinking over to toss her dirty dishes and blinking back to Amélie. “The Thunderbird’s acting up, Winston wants me to take a look at it,” she explains. “Catch you at lunch?” she asks, brows raised hopefully over her aviators. Amélie shrugs. Tracer’s face breaks into a grin regardless. “See you then!” she smiles, giving her a quick salute and blinking out the door.

Amélie sighs, and sips her coffee, checking the clock again. 7:12am. Some of the early risers are waking up. Genji and his mentor, Zenyatta, enter, Genji walking, Zenyatta floating. Genji greets her with a polite bow as he walks past her table towards Jack and Angela, Zenyatta lingers a moment longer. “Peace and blessings be upon you,” The Omnic monk says, his blank face and clear eyes oddly soothing.

He indicates Tracer’s vacated chair. “May I?” he asks politely. She shrugs. He moves out the chair and floats in its place. “I apologise for not greeting you sooner. I was detained on behalf of the Shambali.” She finds his synthesized voice strangely calming. “ _De rien_.” She replies. “Genji spoke of you.” Zenyatta probes gently. “Hm?” she responds, brows raised. “He believes my counsel that saved him may be able to help you as well.” He pauses slightly.

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.” Zenyatta chuckles, a strange, robotic thrum. “A movie Genji insisted I watch once.” His blank face seems almost sheepish. _Interesting_. “Kind of you,” she responds. “But I will be fine.” She takes her plate and cup, moving to go. “If you wish to reconsider, we meditate by the cliffs each evening after dinner.” Zenyatta says.

She leaves without another word, mulling over his offer, watching as he rejoins Genji with Angela and Jack. She sighs, and walks back across the tarmac, unsure where exactly she’s heading. 

-

At 11am, she walks down to the medbay for her daily therapy session with Dr Ziegler. Angela greets her with a warm smile, and motions for her to sit in the chair provided. She crosses her legs and produces her notebook, while Amélie lounges back in the chair, arms folded.

“Just a simple word association to start off with.” Angela chirps, and it takes all of Amélie’s composure to not roll her eyes.

“Sky.”

“Blue.”

“City.”

“Grey.”

“Friend.”

“Enemy.”

“Glass.”

“Wine.”

“Scientist.”

“Monkey.”

Angela raises her eyebrows. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” She scolds, scribbling in her notepad. “What’s your name?”

“Amélie Lacroix.” The name feels thick and unfamiliar in her mouth. “What year is it?”

“2077.”

Angela opens her mouth to continue, but Amélie speeds on, already knowing what’s coming next. “Karen Petras is the President of the United States, I am currently in the Gibraltar Watchpoint, I was captured in Lijiang one week ago with Operative Reaper by a team consisting of Agents Winston, Genji, McCree, and Tracer.”

She pauses, Angela waits, pen poised. “Anything else?”

Angela flips to another page. “I saw you ate with Lena today.” Amélie grimaces. “She is an annoyance.” “Do you remember meeting her in King’s Row?” _After killing Mondatta_ , hangs unsaid in the air.

She remembers their combat across the roof, Lena’s fury and grief at what she’d done. Remembers watching Lena from a distance over the weeks to come, able to end it all, but never quite taking the shot. “Yes.” She says primly.

-

She walks back across the tarmac after a fruitless lunch, with the same results as breakfast. Sitting alone with Lena, exchanging few words, and leaving with some kind of agreement to meet at the next meal. A ship touches down on the launch pad as she walks past it, releasing the few other Overwatch members she hasn’t seen around the base yet, but Lena has filled her in on.

She passes them as they walk down, glancing as she goes. She recognises Reinhardt, who smiles and waves cheerily at her as she goes. A young kid, hair braided back skates past the rest of them, barely glancing at her. _Lucio_ , she recalls from Lena’s chatter.

A tall woman in blue metal armour strides past her, her long black hair flowing behind her, her dark eyes glaring at Amélie, with a tattoo gleaming below her right eye.

_Fareeha Amari. Ana’s daughter_.

She doesn’t notice the last member of the team until they pass her, leaving their final member to walk at his own volition. A lithe, compact man, he carries a large bow in his left hand, a quiver visible slung across his back. He wears flowing dark _kyudo-gi_ robes, with a _yugake_ gauntlet on his right arm. His left arm is bared, showing the twisting dual dragon design riding a cloud of lightning up towards his shoulder. His face is severe, with a sharply trimmed goatee and mustache framing his thin mouth. His head is topped with bushy eyebrows and dark hair, streaked slightly with grey, his hair pulled back into a tight knot with a gold scarf.

He walks on two steely blue prosthetics with a measured balance, like a dancer.

Like a wolf.

He steps off the launch pad steps and sees Amélie across the tarmac. He nods at her, a brief, singular motion, then slings the bow across his back and follows after the rest of the team, leaving Amélie standing alone. _Curious_. She walks on.

-

“That’s Hanzo, Genji’s brother.” Angela says the next day, during their session, after Amélie matches “Man” to “Dragon”, provoking a raised eyebrow from Angela. “He joined us a few months after recall. Him and Genji reunited in the spring of last year.”

“Reunited?” It’s Amélie’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“They had an altercation some years before.” Angela avoids the question. “Patient confidentiality, Ms Lacroix, I’m sure you understand.”

-

She sees him at dinner again that same night, when she enters with Lena. The room grows quiet as they enter, but Amélie walks ahead, undeterred, and takes an empty seat at the end of the table, next to Zenyatta. Lena sits next to her, and the conversation quickly resumes, Zenyatta passing her a plate piled high with Reinhardt’s cooking (stir fry tonight), Lena sitting down on her left.

She eats in silence, Lena and Zenyatta joining in with the conversation easily. Hanzo sits across from her, sitting between Genji and McCree, eating in a similar silence to her own. He glances up, and catches her looking at him. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before returning to their food.

-

They exchange their first words two days later. Ready to leap out of her skin with boredom, Amélie finally caves and asks Winston to grant her access to one of the Watchpoint’s ranges. With some fierce arguing from Lena, he begrudgingly grants her access to Range One between 0800 hours to 1030 hours and 1400 hours to 1630 hours each day. A weapon will be assigned to her and will remain in Range One at all times. _If she tries to remove it_ …Winston threatens. _Don’t_.

After another quiet breakfast with Lena, she tries to casually walk down to Range One, but is screaming inside. It’s been ages since she shot. She checks in using the keypad at the door, and enters, to find Hanzo already there, back towards her as he takes aim at the targets. “You’re not meant to be here.” She says by way of introduction. Hanzo pauses in his practice, an arrow drawn, to look over his shoulder briefly.

“Why?” he asks, his tone flat, as he turns back to the targets and lets his arrow fly. Amélie considers for a moment. _“Winston said so?” “I want to be alone?”_ She says none of these, and instead crosses over to the rifle they’ve left for her, picking it up and readying it. It’s a clumsy rifle, too new and too blocky, vastly inferior to her Widow’s Kiss, but she’s grateful for it nonetheless.

She turns to the console and sets the range up for long-distance shooting, kneeling at the edge and aiming down the scope.

She feels Hanzo glance over at her, but he says nothing.

-

This routine continues for another four days, and about twelve shared words apiece, before Amélie finally snaps. “This range is meant to be off-limits.” She growls, tossing her rifle back and turning to go. “Because of you?” Hanzo says softly. Amélie stiffens.

“I practice here every morning after breakfast and every afternoon after lunch, if my schedule permits me. This is part of my routine.” He continues. “I see no reason to change it.”

She glares at him, but says nothing, and leaves him there with his arrows.

-

“And why does he infuriate you?” Angela asks later, after Amélie matches “Gun” to “Bow”. Amélie sighs, but it’s not directed at Angela.

“I don’t understand him.” She admits. “He doesn’t seem to dislike my presence at the range, but he hardly encourages it.”

“He’s a closed off person.” Angela says. “It’s unlikely you’ll find an answer.”

-

“He’s an odd bloke.” Lena says one morning; privately thrilled that Amélie has spoken without prompting. “Very quiet.” She folds her arms over her chronal accelerator. “Great shot though. One time, we were in Russia, he took down a rogue Svyatogor walker with two arrows! _Two_! And him and McCree…” Lena waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Amélie sighs.

-

Another week passes in shared silence before Amélie gives in to her curiosity. “Why a bow?” she asks, without looking at Hanzo, reloading her rifle. She feels him look over as he nocks another arrow.

“Because I am skilled with it.” He responds. She huffs. “That’s not an answer. Anyone can be skilled with anything, given time.”

She’s not sure, but she thinks Hanzo chuckles slightly. “Hence, why I practice.”

-

“He ain’t gonna judge you,” McCree offers, surprising her one night when she goes out for a late walk and finds McCree leaning against the cliffs, smoking. “No matter what we tell ‘im.” His hard brown eyes streak with anger. _Ah_ , she realises. _Ana_. “He’s an honourable fella,” McCree finishes, tossing his cigarillo over the edge and turning to go. “So don’t go and do him wrong.”

There’s a bite to his words, a slight fondness.

-

A few days later, and the team is called away on another mission, this time to South America. “Something’s going on near Dorado.” Lena explains as she packs her bag, Amélie leaning in her doorway. “We’ve gotta check it out.” She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and grins. “Try not to miss me too much love?” Amélie sighs and turns to go, nearly jumping out of her skin as Lena blinks next to her, kisses her on the cheek, then blinks down the corridor.

She sighs, but not unkindly. Maybe somewhere closer to fondly.

-

She won’t ever admit it, but she does find herself missing Lena’s chatter, however meaningless it usually is. It was nice to have someone around the Watchpoint that doesn’t despise her existence.

She’s eating breakfast alone in the mess hall two days after their departure, when Hanzo drops down opposite her with a bowl of okayu porridge, his bow resting next to the table. They eat in silence together, until Hanzo places his spoon down and rests his hands on the table.

“I have not introduced myself properly,” he announces, his tone oddly stiff and formal. “Please accept my apologies,” he says, giving a small, seated bow. “Shimada Hanzo.”

She regards him curiously for a moment, then a smile quirks up the corners of her lips. “Amélie Lacroix.” She says, and the name doesn’t feel so foreign in her mouth.

-

With the majority of the team away from the base, Amélie is unable to have her scheduled sessions with Dr Ziegler, which she finds herself oddly missing. Winston does however grant her unrestricted time on the range, with the old boundaries still in place, of course.

This prompts an unspoken competition between her and Hanzo each day. They spend hours on the range, tirelessly attempting to out-snipe each other, her with her rifle, him with his Storm Bow. The targets crumble, bullet casings litter the floor at her feet, and they keep firing.

Finally, they stop when Hanzo runs out of arrows. She simply reloads her rifle and glances over at him. He’s breathing hard, his tattoo gleaming with sweat. “Not bad.” She allows. “For an archer.”

-

She joins him the next day after dinner, sitting on the comm tower, looking out over the sea. Zenyatta meditates below them. Hanzo glances down at the Omnic; she notices his fingers twitch slightly.

“You mistrust him.” She says, looking out to the sea. “Omnics are not to be trusted.” He growls, not taking his eyes off Zenyatta.

“Even one so loyal to your brother?” Hanzo’s eyes flash darkly, and they sit in silence for the rest of the evening.

-

The rest of the team returns from Dorado within the week. By then, they’ve fallen into an easy routine. Eat breakfast together, train at the range until lunch, more training after lunch, sit on the comms tower together after dinner until the sun goes down.

They exchange few words throughout the entire day, which suits Amélie.

It takes a few unnerving days for her to figure out what bothers her about Hanzo; he doesn’t care.

Of all the members of Overwatch, only Lena and Winston would vouch for her side (Winston mainly due to his diplomatic nature.) The rest are either neutral, or hate her very presence, specifically, Jack, Fareeha, and McCree.

Hanzo though, either doesn’t know or doesn’t care about her past. She’s not sure how she feels about this.

-

She broaches it with him one evening on the comm tower, sharing a gourd of sake between each other. “Do you know what I did before I came here?” she asks evenly, passing back the gourd. Hanzo takes a swig for himself and clips it to his belt.

“McCree told me things.” He replies quietly. “And Genji.”

“I knew them.” She admits. “McCree more so.”

“So he tells me.” Hanzo smiles, rolling his shoulders.

“I did my own research.” He admits. Amélie stiffens. “Mainly out of curiosity. The reports are conflicting on what happened, but I narrowed it down.” She’s a motionless statue next to him. Only her eyes flick to his face as he continues.

“Amélie,” he begins. “I was a lost man for ten, long years.” His voice is heavy with regret. “Only Genji and McCree know the truth of my suffering, and I will not share it with you. Not now. But what you must know,” he presses on, leaning forward slightly. “All that I did, when I was with the Shimada-gumi and when I left them, those actions were dishonourable, but they were willing.”

She wants to run. Swing away, climb down, leap off the comm tower. Anything but listen to him, yet she remains.

“Genji believes I am on the path to redemption. I am less convinced.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she snaps. He looks back evenly, his deep brown eyes betraying little.

“What Talon made you do was not of your own volition.” He says simply, staring back at her. “You cannot be blamed for those actions.” She stares away over the Gibraltar waves, legs dangling off the edge of the comm tower. Hanzo leans back against it, his prosthetic knee drawn up against his chest. She tries to speak, say anything, but the words seem to dry up in her mouth every time.

“But I remember.” She chokes out. She feels Hanzo’s eyes on her but she continues to stare out. “Every bullet, every target. Every time I pulled the trigger, I remember.” She looks back at Hanzo. “What does that mean?” She stands up and turns to go.

“It means you fought.” Hanzo says, looking out over the water. She stops for a moment, her back to him, then climbs back down.

-

Her dreams that night are filled with screaming. Every target she remembers, every time the Widowmaker pulled the trigger and ended another life, every successful mission. And every time, she remembers Amélie Lacroix screaming within, yelling to be let out of the prison Talon made out of her own body. A rough voice comes from the back of her mind each time.

_“It means you fought.”_

"Amélie?” comes the voice from the door. “You alright in there love?” _No no no no no no no no_. She’s suddenly on the floor, straddling Tracer, hands around her throat. “Amélie.” She chokes. “It’s me, Len-.”

Her grip tightens. Her vision swims. She hears a roar from behind and suddenly arms are tightening around her waist and lifting her up and Lena’s coughing and Jack is yelling and suddenly she’s looking into his deep brown eyes. “Drink.” Hanzo commands, offering her a small porcelain cup.

She blinks, confused. “Where am I?” she asks, her voice thick. “My room.” He responds. “Drink.” He repeats. She takes the cup. It’s warm to her touch, steam rises from the chipped porcelain. She takes a small sip. It’s a warm, smoky tea, slightly sweet. She takes another tentative sip, and slowly looks around. She’s sitting on Hanzo’s bunk, he kneels on a mat on the floor before her. His room is sparse, as undecorated as hers is. Her memory starts to uncloud.

“What happened?” she asks. Hanzo sighs. “After your departure from the comm tower, I mentioned what had happened to Agent Oxton, knowing she is concerned for your safety. She said she was going to find you. I believe she surprised you.”

“Merde.” Amélie curses.

“I am sorry.” Hanzo continues, startling her. “My words were brusque and caused unintentional harm.” He bows low, inclining his head towards her. “Please accept my humblest apologies.”

“Did you mean what you said?” Amélie asks, setting her cup aside. “Every word.” Hanzo replies instantly. She considers this for a long moment. “Thank you.” She smiles.

-

The team gathers in the briefing room the next day. Amélie sits in a chair, flanked by Hanzo and Lena, her throat bruised and purpling. She reaches for her hand under the table, and after a moment, Lena takes it. “Je suis désolé, chérie.” She whispers under her breath. Lena openly grins back. Hanzo sits on her right, silent, but she’s glad for his presence nonetheless.

Across the table, Jack sits, his scarred face twisted into a scowl. Fareeha leans against the wall behind him, arms crossed. McCree sits, boots propped on the table, to his left. Either side of the centre of the table, Genji, Zenyatta, Angela, and Winston stand. The mediators. Jack opens his mouth to speak, but Hanzo beats him to it.

“Before you pass judgment on Ms Lacroix’s actions of last night, know I spoke to her before then, and my words may have had unintentional harm on her.” Jack’s scowl deepens. “Ms Lacroix,” Jack snarls. “Is not exempt from discipline another Overwatch agent would be shown in this circumstance.”

“How about an Overwatch agent who’s gone through this shit for a decade?” Lena growls, still holding Amélie’s hand under the table. “Lena.” McCree warns, sitting up. “No.” Lena presses, standing up and slamming her hands on the table. “I’m bloody sick and tired of you lot treating Amélie like she’s a ghost! Haven’t seen you treating your buddy Reyes like this, Jack.” She sneers. Jack’s blue eyes flash. “Agent Oxton!” he roars. The bickering continues, Amélie fidgeting uncomfortably. She notices a flicker of movement, and Hanzo holds out his hand. She takes it, her hand feeling small in his large, calloused hands. He taps out a quick rhythm with his thumb against her knuckles.

“What do you expect her to do if you trap her in the Watchpoint all day?” Lena shouts. “You want us to give her free rein?” Fareeha laughs scornfully. “Not likely.”

“We could ask her?” Zenyatta interjects mildly. All eyes turn to Amélie. She shifts, unnerved by the sudden attention. Suddenly, an idea comes to her. A reckless, harebrained idea that they’ll never consent to. Perfect. “Let me prove myself.” The table looks back in silence. “Let me join Overwatch.”

-

Three hours later, and at the absolute breaking point of Amélie’s patience, they finally hammer out an agreement. Amélie will only be selected for certain missions, and only with the unanimous agreement of all the members of that mission. She is to be allotted one sniper rifle, modified by Winston and Torbjörn to allow them to remotely shut it down. The ankle tracker will remain on at all times. She will be accompanied by another Overwatch agent at all times whilst sniping. Any attempts to escape, contact Talon, or otherwise endanger the mission, any civilian lives or members of Overwatch will end in immediate termination.

She’s given a placeholder profile in Athena’s system, measured and fitted for an Overwatch tactical suit. She’s sitting on the comm tower with Hanzo that evening when he asks why. “Something Zenyatta told me.” She admits. “I can’t spend all my time waiting around.”

Hanzo sets his jaw and nods. “I will gladly fight by your side.”

-

She gets her first mission for Overwatch a month later. An assassination target in King’s Row, an old Talon scientist desperate to sell secrets to the highest bidder. It’s unnerving to be back, but she sets her jaw, grabs her rifle, and plows on.

She drops out of the transport with Hanzo, Lena kissing her on the cheek just as she turns to go. Hanzo grips his Storm Bow and moves across the rooftops to their perch, Amélie scanning their flank and following.

They move into position, an old apartment building overlooking the river, the warehouse their target’s hiding on the opposite bank. “In position.” She whispers over the comms, kneeling by one of the windows and leaning her rifle on the sill. Hanzo squats next to her, his Storm Bow held with an arrow nocked, ready. They sit, waiting. Genji and Tracer report in over the comms, they’re moving into position.

Hanzo shifts next to her, readying his Storm Bow. She takes her eye away from the scope briefly to glance over at him; the wandering dragon squatted next to her in a ruined apartment. He catches her eye, and smiles at her.

Not the dangerous smile she’s seen him use before, yet not the heavy-lidded gaze he favours McCree with.

Something warm, open.

Friendship.

She smiles back at him, and turns back to the scope.

-

They ride back in the transport, Amélie lying across two seats, leaning against Hanzo, weaving her fingers through Tracer’s hair as she sits below her. She looks up at Amélie with a grin, and kisses her hand as she plays with her spiky brown hair.

Feeling safe, secure, even comfortable, she doesn’t mean to, but she quietly falls asleep, pillowed against Hanzo’s arm.

Since joining Overwatch, Amélie Lacroix sleeps and dreams more often. Her dreams vary. The nightmares still persist, remembering the icy glare of a face she can’t recognise, and the screaming faces she can’t forget.

She dreams sweeter dreams though. Of the friends she has now.

The placid, easy nature of Tekhartha Zenyatta. The ancient courtesy of Genji Shimada. The energetic, bubbling Lena Oxton. The stoic pride of Hanzo Shimada. Her friends.


End file.
